


After

by Underling



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, after it chapter two, its gonna be sad, like really sad, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underling/pseuds/Underling
Summary: Takes place after the events of It: Chapter Two.Follows Richie trying to cope with the death of Eddie.It'll be sad and I'm sorry about that....He had to leave the bathroom, it was still covered in Eddie’s blood. It made him feel sick. He grabbed a trash can, emptying what contents he had in his stomach.“I think I killed it for real!”He went back to the bed, grabbing the note, pulling the hoodie to his chest and curling into a ball on top of the comforter.“Richie…”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter One

_“Eddie. Eddie.”_

_“Honey… he’s dead.”_

_“We have to go. Come on. Come on, Richie.”_

_“We gotta go.”_

_“You guys we can still help him!”_

Richie could barely tell he was being pulled out of Neibolt house. Bill and Ben were dragging him, the house crumbling around him. He fought against their grips, trying to pull away. 

_It’s not fair,_ his mind was shouting. _It’s not fair. We can’t leave him. We can’t leave him._

The sun was too bright. It wasn’t fair. It should be pitch black. It should be storming. It shouldn’t be bright out. It should be dark and dismal. It should reflect how Richie felt. 

Ben had one of his fists tangled in the back of Richie’s shirt. 

The front of the house started caving in first, quickly falling into the ground. Richie lunged forward, ready to go back inside the house. Bill was no longer there to help Ben, but Richie caught Mike out of the corner of his eye, gripping onto his shoulder to hold him still. To keep him from running to sure death. 

“Eddie!” Richie shouted, staring at the crumbling wreckage of the house through blood-covered lenses. “We gotta get in there and get him! He’s still in there!”

The final part of the house was sucked into the ground, dust flying up. Richie wasn’t sure when Ben and Mike’s arms wrapped tightly around him, but as he was pulling them again, he could hear the sound of them struggling to keep him there.

His throat hurt as they dragged him away from the hole that used to be Neibolt house. The hole where, underneath, Eddie’s body was. 

...

The trek to the quarry was blurry in Richie’s mind. He wasn’t sure at what point they left Neibolt street or what point they made it there.

Beverly was the first to make the jump into the water below. Just like all those years before. 

Richie felt numb. Even as that first punch of water hit him. It was as if all feeling had been leached from his body.

Everyone else was cleaning off, rinsing themselves of what It had left on them, and talking. About Eddie. 

Richie wiped off his glasses, wiping blood - _Eddie’s blood_ \- off of the lenses. 

“He’d be looking out for us. The way he always was,” he heard Bill say. “Ain’t that right, Richie.”

He covered his face as his breath got caught in his throat and his eyes glassed over. He could feel the sob working its way up to his throat before it came out. 

“Hey,” Beverly’s voice sounded distant despite being only a few feet away. Richie heard the sound of water moving, arms wrapping around him. Bev and Bill were holding his arms.

 _Why isn’t it affecting them the same?_ Richie wondered. Did they not realize what had just happened? They lost Stan. And now Eddie. They left Eddie down there.

It was all too much. Too sad. Richie couldn’t handle it.

“I don’t have my glasses on so I don’t know who you people are, but thank you for that,” he said, ignoring how his voice was scratchy in his throat. 

They laughed, he heard Bev whisper, “You asshole.” _Good._

“I legit can’t find my glasses,” he added quietly.

“You’re serious?” he wasn’t sure who said it, a couple of voices reached his ears. 

They started searching through the water, Richie stayed where he was, sitting in the water, trying not to think. It was Ben who found them.

…

As they walked back towards the inn, all Richie could think about was Eddie. How he’d hate how dirty they were right now. He’d hate the way their clothes stuck to them from the water. 

“Hey, guys,” Beverly said, Richie turned, seeing her stopped in her tracks. She pointed to her palm. Richie, Bill, and Mike started walking towards her. “Look.”

He saw Bill look at his hand next and couldn’t stop himself from looking at his own. The scar was gone. _Another piece of Eddie, gone,_ he couldn’t help but think.

“Nothing lasts forever,” he heard Mike say softly.

They all turned, looking at the storefront. _Derry is calling you_ , was written on the front. 

_Well, I hope it enjoys voicemail_ , Richie thought mockingly.

He could almost imagine their younger selves staring back at them and wondered if the others saw it too. He could place where Stan would be, next to Bill. Could place where Eddie would be, behind Bev. He almost laughed at the memory of that day. The day they first thought they killed It. 

Eddie was covered in vomit. It was honestly disgusting and Richie had always wondered how he hadn’t just collapsed there because of it. 

“I can’t go home like this guys,” Eddie had said. “My mom will kill me.”

It was true. 

“Dude, you’ve been gone for twenty-four straight hours. Your face is definitely on a milk carton by now,” Richie had mocked, Eddie had just stared at him. 

The memory hurt. A lot. Richie tried to shake it from his thoughts. 

By the time they reached the inn, Richie wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out again. He - they - had lost two of their closest friends, but part of Richie thought the others didn’t care. They weren’t acting like they did. 

But maybe it was by design. Richie felt horrible at the thought that he was more grief-stricken over Eddie than Stan. He _knew_ he was. Did that make him a bad person? 

He wished he could go back in time to before Stan had killed himself. Wished he could tell him how much he really did care for him. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t. 

And Eddie. 

Why didn’t he just tell Eddie how he felt? He could have told him before he died. Before he died alone. While they were killing It. 

He should have told him. 

The inn was silent as they walked in. 

Everyone went to their own rooms, Richie expected it was so they could all shower. He realized he hadn’t noticed Mike leave the group, but he assumed he’d done it when they passed by the library.

Richie had to pass by Eddie’s room to get to his own and, as he did, he stopped midstep, his breath catching in his throat. But he had to shower. If he went in there now, he didn’t know how it would affect him.

He grit his teeth together and walked to his room instead. 

He had hoped that showering would bring some kind of feeling back to Richie. Some other feelings aside from pain and heartache. 

But it didn’t. 

And so Richie got out, and he put on his other pair of clothes that he had brought. The only other pair. He laughed slightly, thinking about how Eddie would have reacted to that. To him only packing one extra pair of clothes. He pulled on the jeans and slipped the t-shirt over his head. 

And then he walked out again, taking his duffel bag and what else he had. A phone charger and some anti-nausea medicine that he had but never took. 

He tried not to look at Eddie’s room. But his eyes wandered. And, as they did, he noticed the door was slightly ajar. 

So Richie stopped and reached out, hand trembling, pushing the door open slowly.

Eddie’s room was immaculately cleaned, completely unsurprising to Richie. It was just how Eddie kept his room as a child. He shut the door behind him, leaning back against him and trying not to cry.

“Oh, Eddie,” Richie whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat as he moved forward, farther into the room.

The first thing his eyes landed on was a framed photo of the man himself. Eddie was dressed to the nines in a dark grey suit. He was smiling, but it wasn’t that wide happy smile he had as a child. It was awkward, a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. But it was the same smile that Eddie always wore in photos he was forced to take. But his true smile, that one that he wore when he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, that smile could light up a room. Any room he was in. 

Richie picked up the photograph, examining it closer. After a few seconds, he found it obvious that it must have been taken for work. He was standing in front of a large skyscraper office building. Richie wondered who had taken this photo. He didn’t necessarily look happy about it being taken and found himself assuming it was done by his mother or his wife. It looked like it was a couple of years old.

Richie sighed, setting the photograph down and turning away from it, looking instead towards the bed. 

There was a grey zip-up hoodie on the bed. It wasn’t folded, more like thrown haphazardly about. Richie wondered if Eddie had thrown it there in a hurry to get out of the room. Maybe it was that morning. Or maybe he had been about to change, perhaps thrown there before he had gone to the bathroom. Before Bowers had stabbed him in the cheek. Richie had no way of knowing.

He sat on the edge of the bed, taking the hoodie into his arms.

There was something white underneath it. Richie laid the hoodie in his lap. It was a folded up piece of paper. Richie’s name was written on it and then crossed out.

Under that, in Eddie’s handwriting, was _Trashmouth._

His hands had started shaking again. He reached for the paper, gingerly unfolding it as if he thought that just his presence would destroy it. 

It was a note. Handwritten, again in Eddie’s careful fond.

_~~Richie~~ _

_~~Trashmouth~~ _

_~~Stupid~~ _

_~~Jerk~~ _

_Rich_

He could hear Eddie’s voice as he read through the note. Once, twice, and again.

_~~Sincerely~~ _

_Love, Eds_

He didn’t realize he had started crying until a droplet landed on the paper.

He quickly wiped the tear from the paper, afraid it would ruin the words. Afraid it would cause all of it, all of this that was left of Eddie, to disappear before his eyes. 

Richie stood up again, carefully setting the hoodie on the bed again, placing the note on top of it. 

He walked to the dresser again, staring at the picture of Eddie. There were a few other things on the dresser. Television and the remote to it. A candle that hadn’t been lit yet. A lamp, one that had a match on the bedside table. A coffee maker and some foam cups. 

His eyes roamed over the dresser once, landing back on the picture. 

His vision blurred, tears flowing from his eyes. His hands seemed to move on their own accord, swiping across the dresser. 

_“It’s probably just your breath wafting back in your face.”_

He could hear the things flying off, could hear the glass of the candle and picture frame shatter on impact. 

_“Can we stop talking about this? I- I- I can barely breathe. It’s summer, we’re kids, I can barely breathe, I’m having a fucking asthma attack! I am not doing this!”_

He grabbed the coffee maker, pulling it from the outlet and throwing it across the room. He flinched at the sound of it hitting the wall. 

_“Do not fucking touch me!”_

He wondered if there’d be a hole. 

_He held his face, making sure he couldn’t see the clown. Just in case It killed them. They’d see each other last._

Richie stared through the tears at the television, gripping it with both hands and forcefully shoved it off. 

_“I. Remember. You. Agreeing. On the fucking rule!”_

The screen broke as it hit the ground. 

_“I was scared.”_

He started pulling the drawers out, throwing them away from him.

_“You’re braver than you think.”_

He was surprised that they were empty. Surprised that Eddie hadn’t put his own clothes in there.

_“Next time we just go with regular scary!”_

Richie walked to the bathroom, legs carrying him on their own. He opened the medicine cabinet, swiping his hands through it and letting all the medicines fall to the floor. 

_“Next time?”_

He had to leave the bathroom, it was still covered in Eddie’s blood. It made him feel sick. He grabbed a trash can, emptying what contents he had in his stomach.

_“I think I killed it for real!”_

He went back to the bed, grabbing the note, pulling the hoodie to his chest and curling into a ball on top of the comforter. 

_“Richie…”_

He didn’t realize how exhausted he was until his eyes closed and he slipped into sleep.

_"Eddie..."_

…

Richie wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep for when a knocking at the door startled him awake. 

For a second, a brief moment, he forgot what had happened. 

And then he saw where he was. Saw the mess he’d made before falling asleep. Felt the hoodie in his arms and the paper in his hand. He curled in on himself again, swallowing back tears that had filled up his eyes again.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Richie shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He wondered who it was, wondered if they would just leave if he didn’t answer the door.

_Knock, knock, knock._

“Rich?”

It was Beverly’s voice.

“Richie,” she said softly. “Honey, I know you’re in there. Come to the door.”

He sat up, wiping a stray tear that had fallen. His legs felt numb again as he walked to the door. 

She was in new clothes, her hair was cleaned, washed. She had a little bit of makeup on, but her eyes were glassy. 

“Oh, Rich,” she whispered, reaching out to him. She was more than half a foot shorter than him, but he felt small compared to her. It was like they were children again, Bev comforting him when he was breaking down. “Let’s go sit on the bed, okay?”

Richie nodded, letting her lead him back to where he’d been minutes before. “Lay down,” she instructed, pulling his head into her lap, running her fingers through his hair. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess that Eddie didn’t do this to the room, huh?”

Richie swallowed thickly, keeping his eyes straight forward, looking at the wall. “We’re all getting ready to go,” she continued, still stroking his hair. “But I wanted to say goodbye to you first. I knew when I checked your room and you weren’t there, but your car was still here, I knew you’d be in here.”

Richie reached up and wiped his eyes, sniffling slightly. “Everyone’s leaving?” he asked quietly.

“Well, not Mike,” Bev murmured. “He’s gotta clean out his place before he goes. He’s gonna drive to Florida.”

Richie nodded. “Good for him,” he whispered. “He needs to get out of here.”

“Come say goodbye to everyone,” Bev said gently, helping him to sit up. “They’d like to see you before we all go our separate ways.”

Richie let her lead him out of the room, making sure the door didn’t shut the entire way. 

Everyone was in the lobby, even Mike. They turned to look at Bev and Richie when they walked down, hand in hand. 

Mike came forward first, wrapping him up in a hug. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, holding him in one of his signature bear hugs. 

Ben came next, patting him on the back. “You can always come to visit,” he murmured. “Bev and I would love to have you,” Richie cast a glance back at her, watching her shrug slightly. 

Bill was last. He looked up at Richie for a moment, wiping away a tear from his cheek before giving him a hug. “It’s gonna be hard,” he whispered. “It’ll b-be hard for a long time, but it gets better. I s-swear. It’ll get better. Soon you’ll be able to think about him and it won’t h-h-hurt as much.”

When he pulled away, he smiled, reaching up to tousle his hair. “Be proud, Trashmouth,” he said quietly. “And try to be happy. He’d want you to be happy.”

Richie swallowed thickly, nodded once. “I’ll see you guys again soon,” he said, voice breaking. “I promise. Soon.”

They all murmured their agreements. No one said anything as he leaned down to kiss Bev’s cheek and walked back up the stairs to Eddie’s room. 

He put Eddie’s things back in his suitcases, his things in the bathroom in the bag he had in there. He glanced at the medications, reading each name. He didn’t know why his hands moved to stuff them in that bag too. He had no use for them, but his brain told him to pack them. 

Going back to the main room, he picked up the hoodie from the bed and slipped it on. It fit him well, only slightly small. He carefully folded the note back up and slid it into his back pocket. He took the picture of Eddie out of the broken frame and folded it as well, putting it in the same pocket.

The suitcases were heavy, adding the toiletries bag and his own duffel bag, he struggled to get them down to his car. The others’ cars were already gone from the parking lot. 

He threw them in the trunk, slamming it shut. He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to keep calm as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Richie didn’t really know where he was driving until he pulled up the kissing bridge. He knew exactly where he’d go. Knew where those initials were that he carved all those years ago. 

He reached into his center console and pulled out his pocket knife, climbing out of the car, shutting the door behind him. 

His feet carried him to the spot as if they’d just been there moments before. He opened the knife, slowly carving into the letters that had lasted 27 years.

He smiled slightly, running his finger over the letters. 

And that’s when he realized it. Realized why the others hadn’t been affected the same way. Yes, they loved him. But not like he did. 

He wiped his eyes, going back to his car and beginning to drive away. 

Richie glanced in his rearview, seeing a figure behind him.

“Eddie?” he questioned, slamming on his breaks and throwing the car into park. 

But when he looked again, there was no one there. Realistically, he knew there’d never been anyone there in the first place. He slammed his hand into the steering wheel. “Dammit!” he shouted, furiously wiping away his tears. “Dammit…”

He put the car in drive again, driving away. He was leaving this behind him. He had to leave it behind him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Go through your mail, Rich,” she murmured. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love that you've already given this story. 
> 
> Here's chapter two for you. 
> 
> This one is kind of sad, I had to take a break from writing it because I started crying. Not necessarily because of my writing, but because in this chapter, Richie reads Stan's note.

It was a little less than a month later when Bev called him. Granted, she called him almost every day since the fight. And on the days she didn’t call, she’d send him a text. 

But she was always checking in on him. In a way, Richie appreciated it, appreciated that someone cared enough about him to check up on him every day. But another part of him felt pathetic. Pathetic that she didn’t seem to trust him enough. 

“Hey Bev,” he answered that afternoon. It had been a long day, despite it only being three. The nightmares had kept him up the entire night long, granting him only an hour of sleep. 

“Rich,” Bev’s voice sounded kind of far away and sad. “How are you today?”

But Richie didn’t want to answer that question. Didn’t want to admit to another night of defeat. “What’s wrong, Bev?” Move the attention off himself. He knew that Bev would notice, but he also knew that she wouldn’t force him to talk about it. Not yet. 

“Have you gotten your mail in the past few days?” she questioned. _The past few days_ , not today. 

Richie looked over to his kitchen table. A large pile of envelopes had gathered there over the past week. Yes, he’d gotten the mail. But he hadn’t looked at it. Any bills he had would be paid over the internet. He didn’t care to look at them in paper form. He didn’t want to see the coupons for some new amusement park. With the pictures of happy families on them.

“I’ve gotten it,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. He wouldn’t lie to Beverly. She could see right through him if he did.

He heard her sigh. “Has he gotten it?” he heard Ben question in the background.

“Got what?” he asked, almost glaring at the pile now. 

There was silence on the other end. Then the sound of a paper being moved, the sound of Bev sniffling. “Go through your mail, Rich,” she murmured. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

“What are you talking about, Bev?” Richie questioned, running a hand through his hair, still not getting up from the chair where he sat. “What’s in my mail?”

She sighed again, it sounded like she was trying to fight against tears when she spoke next. “You’ll know when you see it,” she repeated. “And, if you need to, call me after you read it.”

“Bev-”

“Bye, Rich,” she said, cutting him off. “Remember to call if you need to. Ben and I will be here for you.”

And then she hung up. 

Richie looked at his now blank phone screen. He knew he wouldn’t call her later. He never did. He didn’t want to bother her, or any of the other Losers for that matter. And they seemed to know that, they always called him. 

Richie sighed, finally pushing himself up and out of the chair he was in. His legs felt heavy as he walked to the table, grabbing the stack of mail and going to the trash can. At least he’d be able to throw away the bills. 

Halfway through throwing away bills, Richie became convinced that whatever Bev was talking about wasn’t in his mail. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe whatever it was wasn’t meant for Richie. 

_Trash._

_Trash._

_Trash._

Richie was about to toss the rest of the mail in the trash when he saw it. 

It was the only envelope that had his name and address actually written. The neat font in black pen. 

In the left-hand corner, the name _Patricia Uris_ was written on a sticker. 

Richie’s hands started shaking. He tossed the rest of the mail on the table, gripping onto the edge of it to stay upright. It felt like his legs were about to give him. 

“It’s probably just…” he trailed off, knowing he didn’t have a logical excuse for what this could be. Surely his funeral had already taken place. Though Richie didn’t know when. Perhaps it was while he was stuck inside his apartment. Unable to bring himself to get out of bed. 

Taking the envelope with him, he walked to his cabinet. Inside was a couple of different bottles of alcohol. He reached up, grabbing two of the bottles, wincing as they clinked together. They were both bottles of whiskey. One partially drank and the other unopened. 

Richie went back to the chair he’d been in for most of the day. He placed the full bottle on the small table next to him, opening the other. He held it between his legs as he ripped open the envelope. 

_Dear Losers,_

Richie recognized the handwriting. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself. Despite the 27 years, Stan’s handwriting remained unchanged. He took a swig out of the bottle.

_I know what this must seem like, but this isn’t a suicide note._

“Then what is it?” Richie questioned out loud, hating the way his voice sounded hollow.

_You’re probably wondering why I did what I did._

Richie took a deep breath, downing another swig of the whiskey.

_It’s because I knew I was too scared to go back and if we weren’t together, if all of us alive weren’t united, I knew we’d all die._

Richie shook his head, his mind wandering to that night at the _Jade_. He remembered how he made fun of Stan. How he joked that he was too much of a pussy to come back. It felt horrible now, knowing he was making fun of him, of his friend, when he was doing what he could to protect them.

He took another drink.

_So I made the only logical move._

“No, Stan,” he whispered, swallowing more whiskey.

_I took myself off the board. Did it work?_

Richie took a second, letting out a breath and looking towards his window. He couldn’t see outside, his curtains were drawn closed. 

_Well if you’re reading this, you know the answer. I lived my whole life afraid. Afraid of what would come next. Afraid of what I might leave behind._

Richie thought back to all the times they made fun of Stan for being afraid of small things. Of all the times _he_ made fun of Stan for being afraid. 

_Don’t. Be who you wanna be. Be proud._

He remembered Stan telling him that once. In the depths of his memory, he could clearly see Stan. Could see Stan patting his back and telling him to, “Be proud, Trashmouth. You’re pretty cool, despite what others may say.”

He wondered when he had finished the bottle in his head. He shook his hand, placing it on the ground and grabbed the full one. Breaking the seal he took another long drink. 

_And if you find someone worth holding onto, never ever, let them go._

Richie wondered about Stan’s wife. Wondered if Stan was thinking about this statement when he killed himself.

_Follow your own path. Wherever that takes you._

“Took me to a cavern under the ground,” Richie muttered to himself. 

_Think of this letter as a promise. A promise I’m asking you to make. To me. To each other. An oath._

Richie let out a breath. “Thanks for not making us cut our palms for this one,” he whispered.

There was only one more paragraph left. Richie didn’t know if he could finish it. He felt like finishing it got rid of the last piece of Stan that he had left. That all of them had left. 

_See, the thing about being a loser is you don’t have anything to lose._

Richie guessed he was right. Now at least. He didn’t have anything to lose. Because he already lost everything.

_So, be true. Be brave. Stand. Believe. And don’t ever forget. We’re losers and we always will be._

“I’m sorry, Stan,” Richie said to the air. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry none of us were there for you. You were always there for me when I needed someone but I wasn’t there when you needed us. I’m sorry I spent so much time making fun of you.” 

He wiped tears from his cheeks, taking his glasses off to rub at his eyes.

“You were a good friend,” he whirled around, staring at a blurry figure across the room. 

Richie shook his head, pushing his glasses back up onto his face. “Eddie?” he questioned, “But you’re-”

“Dead?” the figure answered, nodding his head. He didn’t make any movement towards where Richie was. “Yeah, I am. And you’re drunk.”

Richie looked down at the letter still in his hand. The words blurred together. He looked at his other hand, staring now at another empty bottle of whiskey. _When did I finish this?_ He thought to himself.

“You were a good friend,” Eddie - or the figure of him - was in front of Richie now. “To everyone, not just Stan.”

Richie shook his head, staring up at him. “You’re not even really here,” he muttered, taking his glasses off and placing them on the table, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You’re right,” the Eddie thing said. “I’m just from your brain. Cause you’re so drunk. But it doesn’t change the fact that you were a good friend. A bit of an asshole, but not a bad friend.”

Richie closed his eyes, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen Eddie this month, but it was the longest he’d been there. He figured the whiskey was to blame. “Go away,” he muttered. 

Eddie sighed. “You gotta get over me,” he murmured, Richie looked up at him despite him being blurry. “I know it hasn’t been that long and… but you can’t spend your life stuck in your apartment being sad all the time. You should call your manager back, have him schedule a show. Get back into the rhy-”

Richie threw the empty bottle at him, watching it go straight through and smash against the wall. “Get back into the rhythm?” he snapped. “Eddie, I watched you die. You died and I didn’t… I didn’t get to tell you how I felt or that… It should have been me.”

Eddie reached a hand out, Richie could almost pretend that he felt it on his cheek. “I know,” he whispered. “But it was meant to be me. It was or it wouldn’t have happened that way.”

Richie shook his head. “Eddie… I’ve lo-”

Eddie shook his head back at him. “No,” he murmured. “Not right now. When you’re sober. And I’m not here. You have to come to terms with things while you’re sober. And not while you’re hallucinating.”

“Am I?” Richie questioned. “Because it doesn’t feel like this is just a figment of my imagination. It feels like you’re here. Well, not _here_ , but-”

“I’m always gonna be here,” Eddie said back, Richie noticed that he seemed to become more transparent as he spoke. “Go to sleep for a few hours. Call Bev. Do something with your life.”

And then he was gone. And Richie was left alone again.

He forced himself to stand, wobbling on his feet. He could see the door to his bedroom, but it was like a horror movie. It seemed to get closer and farther the more he walked. 

Richie stumbled over his feet, falling to the ground beneath him. As he landed, he watched Stan’s letter float past him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I mentioned before, I don't know what the updating schedule for this will be. However, each chapter is its own, so unlike my other stories, I will not be leaving any of them on a cliffhanger. Despite my love to do so. 
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr : https://www.tumblr.com/blog/underaspark  
> Or come watch me humiliate myself on TikTok : hannajeanne


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look inside the first few months after Eddie died from Richie's point of view. 
> 
> ~
> 
> He grabbed the strip of paper, flipping it over. As a kid, he’d wondered where their photo booth photos had gone. He never asked anyone, well except for Eddie, who’d told him he figured Bill had grabbed it. “Or Beverly, girls are sentimental and shit like that,” he’d said with a shrug. They’d be in Richie’s room, reading comics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm always apologizing for delays in updating, but here we go again. I'm sorry for how long it took me to update. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, even if it makes you sad.

_**Month One** _

Richie barely left his apartment these days. Spent them with his curtains closed, the lights off, a bottle of some kind of liquor in his hand. Normally whiskey. 

He’s left his apartment three times. 

Once to go to the doctor, a yearly check-up. He figured Eddie would want him to go. The doctor told him he was depressed. Told him he needed to eat more. That if he didn’t, he’d die. He wondered if that would be the worst thing in the world.

Once because the bank tried to shut off his debit card. There were multiple charges to a liquor store that delivered. They thought someone stole his card. The woman looked worried when he explained it was him ordering all the alcohol. He wondered if she could smell it on his breath from that morning.

And once to go to church. He hadn’t been for a while, not since he realized he liked guys, too. He had always heard that God would spite you for that. He was afraid to go. But this one time, he did go. He sat in a pew, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. And then he looked up, stared at the ceiling. “Why?” he asked, tears in his eyes. “Why’d you have to take him? Why?” And an old woman in a pew near him looked towards him, looked with pity in her eyes. He dropped his head again. “I miss you,” he whispered. “Can you give me a sign? Just a small sign that… that you’re okay?” Seconds later, there was a hand on his back. His head shot up, face to face with that old lady. “It’s okay, honey,” she told him. “And,” she murmured. “It’s okay to hate him. To hate God. But know, that even if you don’t think he’s there, someone always is.” She held his hand until he left. Richie wondered if that was Eddie’s sign.

He almost left the house when he got Stanley’s letter. The day after. After he woke up on the floor, covered in sweat, smelling gross. He almost left. Almost went to church again. But the second his hand touched the doorknob, he was too afraid to leave. 

…

_**Month Two** _

Richie thought it was supposed to get easier as time went on. Thought he was supposed to be better as the days dragged on. 

But it got worse. Richie knew it was his fault that it got worse. Knew he was torturing himself. Knew he was making it worse by continuing to read Eddie’s note. By continuing to read Stanley’s note.

And most days he laid in bed, now. Staring at the photograph next to his bed. He’d gotten a new frame for it, one without broken glass. He could still see where it had been folded in his pocket.

He hadn’t taken the trash out in a week. It was full of liquor bottles and a few things of takeout packages. He hadn’t eaten much, but he’d eaten some.

He’d eaten some.

…

_**Month Three** _

His manager kept calling him. He didn’t know what had happened. He kept asking, _what happened, are you okay, you left town for a week and came back in a dark place._

_You came back and acted like you were ready to kill yourself._

He wanted him to go back to work. To go back to telling jokes and acting like everything was fine. Like _he_ was fine. 

Richie got an envelope in the mail one day. Well, he wasn’t sure what day it was, really. It was in the middle of his stack. The stack had gotten too high, it kept falling over, so Richie was spending the evening throwing away his bills.

The envelope was from Mike. From his address in Derry. 

“But he’s been in Florida for almost a month,” Richie mumbled to himself. Which meant he’d probably had this envelope for near a month. “Pathetic.”

He grabbed the envelope, abandoning the rest of the mail on the table. He went to his chair, sitting down on the well-worn cushion, grabbing the bottle of whiskey he’d sat there the night before, something he did every night now. 

Richie tore through the top of the envelope and tipped it over into his lap. Whatever it was landed facedown, a strip of paper and another paper that was folded. Few things were that size and shape, Richie knew what it’d be before he flipped it. He took a long swig of the whiskey and unfolded the first piece of paper. 

_I made copies, but I thought you should have the original. -Mike_

He grabbed the strip of paper, flipping it over. As a kid, he’d wondered where their photo booth photos had gone. He never asked anyone, well except for Eddie, who’d told him he figured Bill had grabbed it. “Or Beverly, girls are sentimental and shit like that,” he’d said with a shrug. They’d be in Richie’s room, reading comics.

They all looked so happy in the photographs. He wished he could go back and get them in color. See the way Beverly’s hair would be the focus of the photo, always was. To see the way Eddie’s cheeks were probably red from excitement and happiness.

And for the first time in three months, Richie reached for his phone and dialed a number.

“Richie?” Mike’s voice was groggy. Richie looked at the clock, it was eight here, which meant it was eleven in Florida.

 _Oh_ , he thought to himself. “Sorry, Mike, didn’t realize it was so late,” he mumbled. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

He took the phone from his ear, ready to hit the _end call_ button, when he heard Mike shouting, “Richie! Don’t hang up this phone!”

He winced, holding the phone back to his ear. “Mikey, really,” Richie murmured. “I’ll call you in the morning, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You won’t, though,” Mike said. “You won’t call in the morning, Rich. You won’t.”

Richie swallowed thickly. “No, Mike,” he said softly. “I know I don’t really call-”

“You never call, Richie,” Mike cut him off. “And it’s okay, we all get it. You’re going through a lot, we’re all going through a lot. And we handle it on our own, but Rich…” he trailed off, Richie knew what he was going to say. “Richie we’re all worried about you. You’re… you’re not the same. And I know… I know Eds is hitting you hard-”

“Don’t,” Richie snapped. “Please, don’t talk about Eddie.”

“Richie, this isn’t okay,” Mike murmured. “You need to talk about him. To me or to Beverly or a shrink, but Richie, you have to talk about him.”

Richie was crying, he didn’t know when it had started. “I gotta go,” he said quickly, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Thank you for the photos, Mikey.”

He hung up before Mike could argue. 

And Mike didn’t call back.

...

_**Month Four** _

Mike’s calls have become less frequent, with more time in between each of them. And when Bill calls now he only talks about how Mike is worried about him. And Richie tells him he’s just fine. More than fine in fact. He’s great.

Then Beverly calls to check-in. To see if he really was _fine_. And she let him pretend over the phone.

But then-

“I’m coming to visit,” she had said one night. “Ben and I are going to be in the city, so we’ll come visit. In three days, that’s when we’ll be there.”

Richie let her say whatever she wanted to, told her his address, told her some good restaurants in town. He offered his spare bedroom. 

“That would be amazing, Richie,” she’d said happily, Richie regretted the offer. “But you know you know have to do that. We wouldn’t want to intrude into your bubble.”

But Richie told her it was fine.

And when she hung up, he finished his scotch.

…

And three days later, there was a knock at his door. 

But it hadn’t been three days, had it?

It was six at night. Richie had been drinking, only a little bit. Just a little bit.

He stumbled out of his chair, “Coming!” he shouted, looking around the room. It was semi-decent, looked like a guy’s apartment. A glance in the trash showed that an alcoholic lived there. _No, I’m not an alcoholic, I just enjoy some liquor every now and then._ He threw his junk mail to cover up the bottles.

Richie threw open the door, plastering a fake smile on his face.

“Bev! Ben! Come in!” he said, the happy in his voice dripping with lies.

And Beverly’s face, she looked at him like she was horrified of him. He barely looked in the mirror anymore, because every time he did, he’d look at himself the same way. 

“Rich,” Bev whispered, but he turned away before she could say anything.

“So my spare room is right this way,” he said quickly, guiding them to the room that was empty except for the bed and a dresser. Richie went as far as to put a lamp on the dresser and sheets and a comforter set on the bed. It even had matching pillowcases. 

The spare room is what Richie wished his whole apartment looked like, but he couldn’t get himself to do it. The spare room is what Eddie would like and Eddie… wasn’t there.

“It’s really nice, Richie,” he heard Ben say, “Thank you for this.”

Richie nodded, turning around. Beverly was looking out into the living space and Richie knew she was looking right at the whiskey bottle on the side table. 

Ben cleared his throat, smiling slightly at Richie. “Bev,” he said, reaching out for her arm. “Let’s get our stuff down. And change clothes? It was a long plane ride.”

Beverly nodded, looking back to Ben. “That’s a good idea,” she agreed, reaching for Richie and squeezing his hand. “Would you mind ordering food? We’ll pay.”

Richie shrugged. “I’ll pay, you’re my guests,” he said, kissing her cheek.

He left the room before they said anything else.

…

The nightmares were hard while they were at Richie’s place. He got them almost every night before, but now, when he woke up and went back to sleep, he didn’t descend into darkness. He just landed in another nightmare.

After one particularly bad nightmare, he woke up screaming. And, within seconds, he could hear knocking at the door. 

He got out of bed, running a hand through hair. He wasn’t surprised to see Beverly outside his door. “Hey, Bev,” he murmured. “Sorry if I woke you up. I’m fine. Just a dream. You know, the falling dream? It was a big one tonight,” he lied.

But Beverly didn’t call him out on his lie. Instead, she reached out and took his hand. Took him out to the kitchen and getting him a glass of water. 

And when they both went to bed again, he heard them talking through the wall. 

“Ben, I’m worried,” he could hear Beverly saying. “He was screaming for Eddie. He’s not fine. And what if he’s not going to be fine?”

He heard Ben sigh. “Bev, you can’t help him if he doesn’t want to be helped,” he said, Richie cringed. “Just give him time. He’s still… grieving. And you can’t help someone while they’re grieving. They need that time, _he needs that time._ Just give him the time to grieve and, if he still needs help, then you can help him. But not before.”

“But, Ben,” Beverly started.

“But nothing, Bev,” Ben cut her off. “You wanted to come out here to check on him. And we did. And now we need to leave him alone. He’s jumpy when we’re here and that isn’t going to help his grieving.”

It went on for almost an hour before Richie finally fell asleep.

…

They stayed for a week and a half. 

Richie drank only in his room.

…

“We’ll miss you, Rich,” Beverly told him as they got ready to leave for the airport. “Call us if you need anything. _Anything_ , Rich.”

And Richie told her he would. 

...

_**Month Five** _

Richie was angrier now. He was breaking things and drinking more. 

And Eddie was in his dreams more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm involved in one of those states where schools are closed which means online classes. Which, in turn, means I'll have loads more of time to write.  
> This story has an outline of nine chapters, so I at least know where it's going.
> 
> Kudos and comments are loved and give me motivation to keep writing. 
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr, you know, if you want.  
> > https://www.tumblr.com/blog/underaspark


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And for the first time in what felt like forever, he had a happy dream of the two of them. The two of them _alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to upload another chapter.   
> With everything going on, I've had to readjust to life again along with having to deal with a professor who doesn't care about anyone but herself. 
> 
> Forgive me.

It was the first anniversary. 

But Richie didn’t know that.

The days had blurred together. They always blurred together. He woke up, he drank, he sometimes ate, answered calls from his friends, ignored calls from his manager, or answered them, and barely listened. He’d agreed to do another show. A week from today. But he still didn’t know what he was going to say. He has no jokes left. Nothing.

His phone was ringing. He had just got some food from a Chinese restaurant down a couple of blocks from his apartment. He was picking through it when he saw Beverly’s name on the screen. He sighed as he picked up.

“Hey, Bev,” he’d answered. 

Beverly took a deep breath on the other line, it sounded like she’d been crying. “Hey, Rich,” she’d replied. “Are you okay?”

Richie scrunched up his nose. _She_ was the one crying, not him. “What do you mean? I”m fine,” he glanced around the room. There was an empty beer bottle on the floor. 

“Rich,” she was quiet, taking another audible breath. “Don’t lie to me. _Are you okay?”_

Richie stared down at his food. He was confused. Beverly always asked if he was okay, how his day was going. But she never pushed. She would take his answers with a grain of salt and move on. Move on to something happier. “Beverly, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine, really.”

“Oh,” she whispered. “Richie,” and her voice was quiet, it was sad, it was _wrong_. “Richie, do you know what day it is?”

Richie frowned, pulling his phone from his ear and turning on the speakerphone and looking at the date. “What day it-,” and then it clicked. “Oh. _Oh_.”

His stomach flipped. “I have to go,” he said quickly, clicking on the call again. 

“Richie, wai-” he heard Beverly start as he hung up. 

Richie shoved his plate into the trash, rushing to the bathroom. 

Whatever food he had in his stomach ended up in his toilet, along with the two bottles of beer he’d drank earlier. 

…

Richie must have passed out on the floor of the bathroom. He woke up disoriented with a migraine from hell. 

He was on his back. 

“ _You could’ve aspirated on vomit if you threw up again,_ ” the familiar voice was in his head. “ _You shouldn’t fall asleep on your back if you’re gonna throw up.”_

Richie groaned, rolling onto his side. “You’re not here,” he muttered. “Not really.”

He tilted his head up, looking towards the open door to his bathroom. “ _Your phone’s been ringing nonstop.”_

He could hear it now. Could hear it stop and then immediately start again. “Go away,” he snapped. 

But Eddie, or no, the hallucination of Eddie, stayed right where it was. “ _You should answer you’re phone_ ,” it said. “ _Bev is probably worried._ ”

 _He’s right_ , Richie couldn’t help but think. 

Richie groaned, rolling onto his stomach and pushing himself up, ignoring the way his head spun as he stood up. 

He walked through Eddie.

It was Beverly calling. 

“Bev, I’m fine,” he said as soon as he answered. “I just… I needed a minute.”

“It’s been over an hour, Richie,” Beverly snapped. “I was _worried_ , Richie, worried you might have don’t something stupid. I was ready to call the police for a wellness check.”

Richie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m fine,” he said again. “I’m sorry I worried you, I just… I needed time, okay. I still need time.”

“Everyone one of us needs time, Richie!” Beverly said loudly. “We all need time. And we’re trying to give you time, but… Richie, you need help, too.”

Richie looked across the room. Looked at the blinds. He wasn’t sure what time of the day it was, he couldn’t see the sun shining around the edges. 

“I don’t need help, Bev,” he told her. “I’m doing just fine on my own.”

“ _You shouldn’t lie to her_ ,” the hallucination was back. “ _She knows when you’re lying to her_.”

“Richie, please,” Beverly sounded like she was begging. “I can’t be there all the time, I just… it’s hard to worry about you, but that’s all I seem to do. I’m constantly worried about you.”

Richie had a beer in his hand, he wasn’t sure when it got there. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he murmured. “Stop worrying about me. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It’s just… I don’t know what to do now,” he said honestly. “It’s like… all those years I could tell… I could tell-”

Beverly cut him off. “That something was missing?”

Richie swallowed thickly. “And then he was gone again,” he choked out, tears in his eyes. “And this time… this time I can’t get him back. There’s no way I can get him back. And I don’t know how to move on from that.”

“ _Richie_.”

He winced, shaking his head. 

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” Beverly said gently. 

Richie smiled past the tears in his eyes. “I do,” he said quietly, looking now at the hallucination in his living room. For a split second, he could see Eddie how he was in those last few minutes. A gaping hole in his chest, the bandage on his cheek, the blood coming from his mouth. 

He wanted to throw up again. 

“I do need to do this alone,” Richie said softly. “I do. It’s just… I know we all miss him, but… You guys don’t understand, okay? And I don’t want you to feel bad or like you have to fix me. Because the only one who can fix me is myself right now.”

He could hear Beverly sigh. He wondered how many times she’d sighed at him just during this phone call. “Just… I need you to call me if it gets too bad,” she murmured. “I’m always here for you and… I just need you to know that. To know that no matter how bad it gets I’ll always be here for you.”

The Eddie thing was still standing there, staring at him. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you’ll always be there.”

“ _She’s worried about you_.”

Richie knew why she was worried. Remembered the night when she came back to visit. Two years after It, after moving in with her aunt. Remembered sitting on Richie’s bed as he cried to her about the things people were saying to him. Remembered telling her that he liked boys, crying to her that he was too messed up for someone to love him. Remembered, in a panic-ridden state, telling her that he wanted to die. 

“It’s not like that this time,” he whispered. “It’s not like that summer. I’m not… I don’t feel that way,” he wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. 

“Just call me,” Beverly said again. “ _Please_.”

“I will,” Richie said quickly. “If it gets too much and I feel like… I’ll call you.”

And she sighed, again. “I love you, Rich,” she murmured. “We all love you. And _he_ -”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Richie barely managed to say. “Don’t.”

Eddie was closer now. Looking at him with those eyes. Those sad eyes that could light up a room if he let them. 

“Be safe, Richie,” Beverly murmured. “I’m here-”

“If I need you,” Richie cut her off. “Goodbye, Bev, I’ll talk to you soon.”

He barely heard her goodbye as he hung up.

Less than five minutes later, his phone rang again. He ignored it at first, figuring it was just Beverly again and he didn’t want to listen to her talk about how Eddie would want him to live better. To live happily.

After a few rings, it stopped. 

He heard his phone ding a few seconds later. Richie frowned, looking at the screen.

**One New Voicemail from Mike**

Richie sighed, grabbing the phone and pressing play.

“ _Richie, hey, it’s Mike_ ,” Mike started. “ _Well, you probably saw my name. I just wanted to call and check up on you, I know today is… well, you know. I just want to make sure you’re okay, alright? Just call me back when you can. We’re here for you, Rich._ ”

He stared at Mike’s contact information as it popped up on the screen. He should call him back, he knew that, but he couldn’t handle hearing his voice right now.

He didn’t have a choice.

His phone was ringing again. 

“ _You should answer it._ ”

“You should get out of my head,” Richie snapped. “You’re not even really here. You’re not real.”

“ _I’m real enough that you see me,_ ” Eddie’s voice was clear as day. “ _I’m real enough to your mind.”_

Richie rolled his eyes, grabbing the phone and answering it. “Hey, Mike,” he said, trying to sound happy, or okay, at least. “Sorry I missed your call, I was-”

“Avoiding everyone?” Mike cut him off. But he didn’t sound angry, for that Richie was relieved. “I figured I’d get voicemail on the first call. At least today. But I figured you’d answer at least once.”

Richie hummed, he just wasn’t in the mood to talk. “Well, anyway,” Mike said, clearing his throat. “I just thought I’d check in on you, see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine,” Richie said. He’d said it so many times it didn’t feel like a real word anymore. “Really, I’m fine. I’m coping. As best I can.”

“Right,” Mike said softly. “That’s all anyone can ask for, you know? Just let me know if you need anything, Rich.”

“I will.”

“And, uh, you should come visit me sometime,” Mike told him. “Down here in Florida. I think you’d really like it. Get some sun.”

Richie smiled at the attempt. “I think that’d be nice,” he agreed. “I’ll look and see when a good time would be. Thanks, Mikey.”

“Have a good day, Rich. Call if you wanna talk.”

“I will,” it was a lie, but at this point, it didn’t matter. “I’ll talk to you later.”

And he hung up.

_“You’re not going to visit him, are you?”_

Richie ignored the voice. 

…

“ _Go look through my things_ ,” Richie was laying in his bed, hearing Eddie’s voice as he rolled over to face the wall. 

“ _Go look through them_.”

Richie pulled his cover over his head. “They aren’t _your_ things,” he muttered. “You aren’t _real_.”

His room was silent again. Just how it was meant to be. He removed the cover from over his head, staring at the wall in front of him. 

He should get out of bed. He’d been in there since Mike had called. It was dinner time. He’d already thrown up his lunch. He couldn’t remember if he had eaten yesterday. But he had no motivation to get out of bed. 

He rolled over again and his eyes landed on Eddie’s bags. They’d been in his room, against his wall, since he got back. He hadn’t touched them since that day. They had a layer of dust over them now. Eddie would hate it. Richie let himself smile for a moment.

And then the smile slipped away. 

Because Eddie wasn’t around to hate it.

“ _I hate the dust_ ,” the hallucination said. 

“Shut up,” Richie muttered. 

“ _Richie_ …”

“Just shut the hell up! Get out of my head!” Richie shouted, rubbing his hands over his face, wiping his tears away. 

And he was alone when he opened his eyes. 

But all he could think about was opening those bags. Opening his suitcases. Going through his bathroom bag. His medications. To search through for a thread of Eddie. Of who he is. 

Who he _was_. 

He grabbed Eddie’s bathroom and medication bags. He walked out of the room to his bathroom. 

Richie meticulously went through each medication. Reading the names of things he’d never heard of before. Reading and rereading Eddie’s name written on them, the names of the various doctors that had prescribed each one. 

He read the labels on Eddie’s shampoo and conditioner. They were both made from natural ingredients. It said they smelled like mint. 

Richie was sure Eddie had poured over every single ingredient that was in them. He’d probably gone through a hundred different brands before settling on this one. And maybe he hadn’t settled on this one yet. Maybe this was just another set that he was going through. Trying to decide if it would work for him. 

Richie opened it and breathed in. And it took him back. Back to _that_ day. To Eddie leaning over him. Happy to think he had defeated It. Close enough to touch. Close enough to smell. To breathe in the scent of his shampoo. Of his conditioner. Richie forced himself to close it, sitting it on a shelf in the shower. 

It looked like someone else lived here, now. Just in the bathroom. And that was enough for now. 

He knew emptying Eddie’s suitcases would be the hardest part for him. Seeing his clothes, imaging what he’d look like in those clothes. 

But, without thinking too much, he meticulously took each article of clothing out and hung it up in his closet or folded it and placed it in his dresser. One piece at a time. 

And he finished. And it didn’t hurt too much. He was zipping up the second when he saw it. Sticking out from one of the front pockets was something shiny. He stopped what he was doing and unzipped the pocket.

It was a plastic baggie. The small kind that you might put candy in for a little kid. But there wasn’t candy in this one. There was an old polaroid picture with a piece of paper in it. 

Richie opened the baggie, pulling out what was inside it. The photograph was of him and Eddie, probably taken the summer It had happened. In fact, Richie recognizes the shirt he was wearing. His old Freese’s shirt. After seeing himself as a doll, dead and in a coffin, he stopped wearing it. He couldn’t remember if he got rid of it or if it remained in his closet until he left. 

He sat the photo down on his nightstand, next to where Eddie’s letter laid, right beside the framed picture of Eddie. He unfolded the paper, realizing it was from a small notepad that was left in each of their rooms at the inn back in Derry. The handwriting on the note was the same as the letter he read every night. 

Most of it was crossed out, but not enough that he couldn’t read what it said. He laughed to himself as he read it. 

_~~You (I, but maybe in the future, I need to call myself ‘you’, so I know I’m addressing the person reading this) hid this in a box that you buried in the backyard. This is Richie (and you, but I’m hoping you - I - this is weird - remember what you looked like as a kid). If anyone reads this they’re going to think I’m crazy for writing it. It sounds crazy. I sound crazy.~~ _

Underneath it was written something else. Not crossed out. Dark as if it had been written over a few times. 

_**This is Richie. Don’t forget him. Not again.** _

“ _I really didn’t want to forget you again_ ,” the voice, this time, made his breath catch in his throat. A sob breaking out. 

“You’re not real,” Richie whispered, his heart feeling like it was breaking in his chest. It felt like he was having a heart attack “You’re not really him.”

“ _I’m real to you_ ,” Eddie said. 

Richie shook his head, covering his ears. “You aren’t,” he whispered again. 

He saw him walk in front of him, watched him kneel down. “ _I am_ ,” he said, and Richie could hear him even through his hands. “ _Or else you wouldn’t be seeing me_.”

Richie swallowed back his tears, staring at the _not_ Eddie in front of him. “You can’t be real,” his voice cracked. “You can’t be. You can’t.”

He saw Eddie’s hand come forward, knew it would do the same thing it did in his dreams. Go right through him.

Except.

It didn’t.

He felt Eddie’s hand land on his shoulder. Felt his hand squeeze reassuringly. “ _I’m real, Richie,_ ” he said again. 

Richie couldn’t say anything else, didn’t know what he would say if he could find the words. “ _Stand up, Rich_.”

So Richie did. He stood up, Eddie stood up in front of him. He let him take his hand and lead him to his bed. Let Eddie help him lay down. Saw, felt, Eddie lay down next to him. He laid his head on his best friend’s chest. He felt Eddie’s arms wrap around him.

And he fell asleep. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he had a happy dream of the two of them. The two of them _alive_. 

…

It could tell it was past midnight when he woke up. 

When he woke up alone. 

He rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over his head. 

And he cried himself back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter. It took a long time.
> 
> Comments are appreciated, it's nice to know if _anyone_ reads this story. 
> 
> Until next time.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr > https://www.tumblr.com/blog/underaspark
> 
> Or you can find me on TikTok  
> @hannajeanne


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